


The Keepsake Box

by Kailene



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Family Feels, Gen, Jack-Centric, Mentioned Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2015)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27949139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kailene/pseuds/Kailene
Summary: It’s an old computer paper box that she swiped from one of the Phoenix labs to replace the shoebox that had gotten too small to hold the treasures nestled within. She runs one of her fingers slowly across the tattered cover, her heart heavy as she realizes that this one too will soon have to be replaced.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	The Keepsake Box

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a conversation in my Discord group. A joking post about a set of salt and pepper shakers that would make a great gift for Jack. My muse sparked on the idea and ran, except what was supposed to be a light and fun story instead turned out, well, as you'll read, anything but. 
> 
> So, ladies, this one is dedicated to all of you. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for the inspiration and support. Huge thanks to RiatheMai, for everything you do.

Riley’s never been one for impulse shopping. She doesn’t do knick-knacks or collections of any kind, preferring clean lines and open spaces, and things like that only add undue clutter to a home and life that is already busy enough. Even where her rig is concerned, she’s not one to jump on the latest big tech bandwagon or to make spur of the moment purchases.

But on this crisp, fall day, walking around the open-air market that she is surveilling for their latest mission, the moment Riley sees them nestled there among the retro orange, ceramic canisters and eclectic coffee cups she knows that she has to have them.

So, she scoops them both up quick in one hand while dipping into the pocket of her jeans for some bills. They’re a bit on the pricey side, and usually Riley would love to barter and haggle, to put to use the skills she’s learned since becoming an agent, and see how persuasive she can be, how low she can get the price.

But in this case money is no object; the emotional value of the items nestled in her hand are priceless.

The stakeout after that is less monotonous. The hours pass with a smile on her face, a bounce in her step and a chorus of _Ah, push it, push it real good_ playing on an endless loop in her head.

And if her imagined singer is decidedly male with a Texas twang twisting around all the words, well, nobody but her has to know.

~~~***~~~

The moment the Op is done and she’s back home in her own apartment, Riley goes straight to her bedroom, placing the bag with her purchase on her bed as she opens her closet. Standing on her tiptoes, she reaches up into the very back corner of the top shelf, fingertips walking along the bottom of the box as she pulls it forward, catching it with an _oof_ as it clears the ledge and falls.

Riley cradles the box close to her chest as she walks back across her room. She climbs onto her bed, legs scooting her across the comforter covered mattress until her back is resting against the pillows that are piled up high in front of her headboard with the box resting on her lap.

It’s an old computer paper box that she swiped from one of the Phoenix labs to replace the shoebox that had gotten too small to hold the treasures nestled within. She runs one of her fingers slowly across the tattered cover, her heart heavy as she realizes that this one too will soon have to be replaced.

Riley slips the cover off and places it beside her. She tucks a stray piece of her wayward hair back behind her ear, fingertips brushing away tears she can’t hold back as they slide down her cheeks.

Four years’ worth of Christmas wrapping paper gets taken out of the box first; bright, jolly Santa’s, flying reindeer and cheerful snowmen all stare back at her against a backdrop of reds, and golds, and silver. Birthday paper sits underneath that; balloons, crepe paper in every color, and banners announcing _Happy Birthday, Merry Christmas_ and _Happy New Year_ still all neatly packaged, waiting for the day their purpose can be fulfilled.

She lifts a small piece of cardboard out of the box. Attached to the front, kept safe beneath a piece of plastic molded around it, is a tiny, die-cast GTO. A perfect replica for the beloved car right down to the white interior and the controls on the dash, it was a surprise find late one night as she roamed the local department store as sleep had eluded her. Or had it been her eluding sleep?

A couple of tee shirts come out next and she holds them up in front of herself. They’re third and sixth on the _favorite Metallica tee shirt scale_ that she’s never been able to figure out the ranking system for, replacements for previous shirts of the same design ruined on past Phoenix missions. They’re rough and stiff in her fingers and the smell is all wrong—leather and gun powder, whiskey, and old spice nowhere to be found. Those scents, extending all the way back to her childhood, have always meant comfort and safety, home, and love are now tucked safely away, shirts sealed in bags tucked in the back of her drawer for when the days turned months turned years become too much.

A thick paperback book comes out next, _Adventures on the Western Frontier_. It’s filled with tales of ordinary men and their feats of courage. Riley lost herself in the pages, riding along across the wide-open plains as she thought of her own cowboy, out righting wrongs, defeating villains, and rescuing the helpless.

There’s a fluffy, white stuffed bunny holding a carrot filled with jellybeans in one paw while a handful of sparklers rest against the other. He leans against a red, satin heart filled with—long stale—chocolate in the corner of the box, his friend the turkey sitting snug beside him. Riley reaches in and pulls out the turkey, smoothing down his tail feathers, and a fond smile curls the lips. 

Tom, as he’s come to be unoriginally named, was an after-the-holidays, on clearance find. He was sitting on a shelf all by himself, a big, red circle on his foot with the words _press me_ in bold letters written in the middle.

_That’s an order right there, Ri, honey. One you’re obligated to carry out._

Jack's easy drawl sounds in her head, as clear as if he were sitting right next to her, and Riley releases a shuddering sigh. He used to say that to her when she was a teen and he dragged her along with him to the store. 

_Why else would they go and make it all attention grabbing red if they didn’t want you to actually go and press ‘em, hmm?_

So, he had. 

He walked down the department store aisles, a big, dopey grin on his face as he pressed _each and every_ button that read _press me,_ he could find. 

Teen Riley was mortified and furious. Adult Riley holds those memories, precious and prized, close to her heart.

And that day, well, who was she to disobey an order?

So, she pressed it.

She stood in the middle of the aisle and couldn’t hold in the giggles as the stuffed turkey came to life, jumping, and dancing and wiggling its tail feathers as the polka-styled, accordion rendition of the Chicken Dance played from a tiny speaker.

Tom quickly found his way into her cart, then into her keepsake box to keep Peter Rabbit company. Riley places him carefully back inside the box for safekeeping for the day that Jack can enjoy it just as much as she did.

She spies the coffee mug—a silhouette of a large wolf howling under the light of a full moon emblazoned on the front—that she purchased at the new coffee shop that opened up down the street from Phoenix on his first birthday away.

Never _gone_ , always _away_.

Because _gone_ means permanent and _away_ means coming back and Riley refuses to accept any other scenario except the one where Jack comes home to them and rejoins the family and the team where he belongs.

The cup is filled with a handful of colorful, plastic frogs that she won at the arcade, the kind that you make jump across the room with the force of a finger pressed against the back edge.

She’s thinking of bringing them to the Phoenix when Jack returns, putting all the little frogs in their own bowl on the War Room table right next to the large bowl of Mac’s paperclips. She can easily picture tiny amphibians shooting around the War Room while a briefing is taking place. Russ would absolutely lose his mind… Jack’s cue, of course, to up the shenanigans and flick even more. 

The image as it plays out in her head makes her chuckle despite the deep, all-consuming pain it causes and her laugh turns wet and broken, the items on her lap wavering as more tears blur her vision.

There are a few guitar picks and guitar strings she’s picked up in her travels, and a brand-new TAC knife leaning against the cardboard side, its leather case allowing it to be worn on a hip or as a shoulder harness. The latter was purchased with the help of Worthy and Thorpe, Jack’s old Delta teammates _just happening_ to be in their neighborhood one day—and many more days after that. 

A few more small winnings from the prize shelves at the Pizza Paradise are scattered about, spinning tops and finger traps, a couple of yo-yo’s and a mini, desktop skee-ball game that sits atop a copy of _Celebrity Crossword Puzzles, 80’s edition_ and some metal and wooden brain-teaser mind puzzles that Jack tries to hide from them all just how quickly he can figure out how to solve.

Sitting at the very bottom of the box, still wrapped up safe in plastic is a _Die-Hard_ board game, _The Nakatomi Heist_. It was a must-have item as soon as she stumbled across it online. There's not even a single shred of doubt in her mind as to who will play John McClane and who will automatically be delegated to always playing Hans Gruber and his gang of thieves. 

Out of everything that she has purchased and saved for him, this is the one item that Riley is most excited about giving him, wanting to give him some innocent joy after the years away he has spent constantly on guard and fighting for his life and the lives of others. She longs to make his eyes light up in that _little kid at Christmas_ way that despite everything that he has been through, he still holds onto.

That she hopes with all her heart that he is still able to hold onto after his latest descent into Hell. 

Riley pulls her latest purchase out of her bag, holding it as she carefully unwraps it from the newspaper surrounding it. It’s a set of white, ceramic salt and pepper shakers. Written across one, in big, bold, black letters, are the words _Push It_ and across the other _Push It Real Good_. She smiles wistfully as she cradles them in her hands, a feeling of homesickness—even though she is not the one who left—falling over her so thick and heavy that it's nearly suffocating. 

Despite Jack’s obsession with all thing’s country and classic rock, the _Salt-n-Peppa_ song is one of his favorites, singing the chorus— _only_ the chorus, Riley reminisces with fond exasperation—as he walked the halls of Phoenix, worked around his apartment, hung out at Mac’s house, or during the long hours that they all spent aboard the jet. 

It’s also one of his go-to songs for karaoke. Jack would pester and annoy them all to go with him, resort to bargains and begging, and each and every time they would capitulate and accompany him to some out-of-the way bar or club for karaoke night _._ He would take the stage, stone cold sober, strutting and going all out as he sang _Push It_ for an audience who couldn’t get enough of him.

Before the night was through, he would have each one of them up there at the microphone with him, missions and objectives and the fate of the world no longer existing. Just a family laughing together, out having fun as they belted out ballads and love songs.

Riley drops her head back onto her pillows and squeezes her eyes shut tight. Her chin quivers and she bites her bottom lip in an attempt to hold back the rush of emotions that she can feel building.

It’s a useless effort. A soul-deep sob breaks free. Her breath hiccups and her chest heaves with the force of her heartache

She misses him tremendously. The pain, like the fear she has for his safety, is sharp, intense. Constant and all consuming. 

It's the everyday things.

His hugs, all-encompassing as he pulls you in, wraps you up in the circle of his arms, safe, protected, loved—shielded from the evils of their world and the haunt of nightmares. 

His smile, his laugh—that she finds herself, on the harder days, having to listen to old mission audio or watch old family videos to remember when the sound seems to have faded from her memory. His stories, that no matter how long and rambling, always hold wisdom.

She even misses his lame jokes and even worse puns, his obnoxious, overly loud crunching of the snacks he brings with him on stake-outs, which she knows he purposely does just to get them all going, to rile them up to take their minds off of the long, monotonous hours and to make the time pass by quicker. 

She misses the strength his presence always provides, solid and strong, calm and unflappable in the face of even the worst danger or odds. 

She feels off-center, out of sorts, and adrift. The family is still together, but incomplete. They've adjusted and adapted, kept going on and doing what they promised Jack they would. 

But they are existing—second by second, hour by hour, day by day—not living. 

Riley takes a couple of deep, stuttering breaths in, exhales just as shaky. She grabs some tissues off her bedside table and wipes her eyes, cleans the mascara that has run down her cheeks.

_It’s okay have a meltdown, sweetie. Just don’t unpack and live there. Cry it out, yell it out, punch something; whatever you need to do. Then you refocus on what needs to be done and where y’need to be._

Jack’s advice comes back to her. He first said those words to an angry, hurting thirteen-year-old who rolled her eyes and slammed her bedroom door in his face. Years later, once more angry and hurting, she heard them again. But this time, she took them to heart, filing them away in her mental book of _Jack’s Infinite Wisdom_ alongside all the rest of his knowledge that he has bestowed on her over the years like defensive driving, first aid, and self-defensive.

She doesn't feel any better, and she huffs out a wet laugh thinking that she looks just as bad. She still misses him deeply. Worry still sits like a weight on her chest, but her breakdown allowed her a release and reset. 

Riley stares down at the _Salt-n-Peppa_ shakers that are still in her hands and a small smile curves her mouth. She wonders about his reaction, to them and the rest of the gifts that await him for when he returns, hoping beyond hope that she finds her answer before the need to add a second treasure box arises. 

She carefully rewraps them and places them safely back inside the box and slides the cover back on, then tucks the box back on the shelf in her closet. Riley walks over to her dresser and reaches her arm into the very back of her top drawer. Plastic crinkles loudly as she pulls out a clear bag and opens it, the white tee shirt contained within folded neatly, _Rolling Stones_ splashed in big red letter across the front.

The shirt is soft and worn, and Riley presses it to her face. Jack’s signature scent has faded; no matter how deeply Riley inhales there is no trace of him left on one of his favorite tees. But that’s okay, because even the power of time itself can’t steal the memories and feelings that this one simple item holds.

Riley slips on the shirt and a pair of her comfiest sweatpants and pads out to the living room. She grabs a leather pouch from her desk drawer on the way by before she curls up on the couch, wrapping herself up in the Dallas Cowboys snuggie that has taken up residence in her apartment.

She unzips the leather pouch and very gently takes out the letters held within. The pages are crumbled and stained, battered from the chain of couriers and drop boxes through which they were delivered.

She finds them on her carpet at random times, a plain white envelope having been slid underneath her door. There is never a return address or a stamp of any kind, never a face seen or identifying mark on the messenger picked up on her security camera to trace.

After she read the first one, she stopped looking. She doesn’t need a signature on the anonymous letters to recognize the scrawl of the person who sends them. 

_Jack_.

His smooth, southern drawl is heard in every handwritten word she has memorized. He talks of nothing really. There is never a mention or even the slightest inkling of what country he’s currently in or how his hunt is going or how he really is doing.

The latter she can tell though. Good days are ones where the sweep and slope of his letters are smooth and quick, like he’s excited about whatever rambling tale he wants to share with her. Bad days are shaky letters and dropped sentences, paper stained with brownish-red smudges. There have been too many of those, leaving Riley herself shaking and fighting to break the promise she made to herself not to use all of her skills to track him down, then go check for herself—in person—that he is okay.

The pages are a tangible piece of Jack for her to have while he is away. Pages touched by him, his voice, words chosen for her by him and she cherishes each and every one that she receives. Looking at the floor of her apartment has become routine, the first thing she does every time she walks in her door, hoping beyond hope that today is the day that she receives another.

Her biggest hope though, is for the day that she opens the door and finds not a letter in her foyer, but Jack himself.

Until then, she’ll continue to carry on, head held high and kicking ass like he taught her to do. And she’ll keep adding to her keepsake box, until the day Jack returns, and the box becomes _just a box_ once again.


End file.
